Wild Hyacinth
by Mrs. Cope
Summary: Siobhan had good reason to doubt her special gift; her human life did not bring her happiness. This is the story of her unhappy human life, meeting Liam, and the events that led to her transformation. Warning: Contains violence against a woman.
1. Chapter 1: Unlucky

_**I've always wondered about Siobhan and Liam, how they met, how they came to be. I started this story one night when I was in a dark depression, and the story seemed to fit perfectly into Siobhan's voice. **_

_**I will warn you that the story does contain violence toward a woman. No person should have to endure this kind of violence. **_

_**A million thanks to my beta, Mr. Bigg, who encourages me when I think I can't go on, and lifts me out of that dark place. Thank you. (It's not enough, I know.) Also, thank you to the CheshireCat himself, for listening with attentiveness to all my nonsense.**_

**Unlucky**

He was jacking off again and I wasn't sure I could stand it.

I bit the inside of my lip, trying desperately to squelch the need that coursed down the veins of my arms. I just wanted to touch him, to rub my body against him, feel the smoothness of his skin. I was desperate; I wanted him to want me. I rolled my crotch towards his leg, yearning for the feel of his skin against mine, the heat of passion to bloom against my most tender parts. I wanted a man's touch, a man's love, his desire.

"Don't touch me! God!" He stopped rubbing his cock as I jerked away, anger breaking through his self-induced pleasure. "I've told you about this. Do you want me to leave? Are you trying to drive me away?"

"No, no, please. I'll be good, I promise." I knew I sounded like a whiny, petulant child, but I couldn't keep the disappointment out of my voice.

"Jesus, Siobhan. You know what that does to me," he hissed, let a shiver of disgust undulate across his shoulders, spilling exasperation and frustration into a fog of pain around me. "If you can't restrain yourself to keep off of me, then you can't watch. I'll tell you when you can move." I rolled my tongue across my lips in hunger.

It was painful to watch him, night after night, gratifying himself as he denied my touch. His cock was thick and hard, and my desire was such that I could just imagine how good it would feel inside me. But night after night, that's all I could do – imagine. He'd made it clear that not only he, but no man, would ever touch me again.

I couldn't blame him, really. We'd met when I young; he was ambitious and I was hopeful. I'd never seen a man like him before, strong and straight and beautiful – and he said he loved me. My lonely heart wanted so badly to believe him, that I convinced myself things would be magical between us. I wrapped my being around that desire, willing it into existence, so that it was no surprise when my foolish head nodded when he asked me to marry.

My father looked deep into my eyes, trying to divine a reason to hesitate as he gave him my hand. He'd watched me for days before, singing to myself, stopping only to stare off into the distance out the kitchen window, sighing and behaving like the lovesick schoolgirl I was. He flinched as they sealed the bargain with a handshake, holding his tongue and keeping his emotions in check. He never spoke the reasons to me until the day of my wedding, when he mumbled as he escorted me down the aisle. "I hope you know what's what, girl. This one has a vicious soul." I hadn't listened. I saw only the man who would be my husband, waiting at the altar, waiting for me, and the hope of our life together pushed my feet forward.

He'd taken my virginity the first night of our wedding, and performed his marriage duties with only compunction and no joy, but I was young and inexperienced. I believed it was just his way, just the way of marriage, just the way of life.

Then my father died. All the love and tenderness I'd known in this world was laid to rest in the ground with my father's body. I was left with an inheritance of wealth and land, and in our cornet of the world, we were considered well to do. The few friends I'd had began to see me differently, and whispers erupted about the foundation of my marriage.

Things changed swiftly. He withdrew from casual interaction with me, offering only stretches of silence interrupted by grunted demands at meals. He busied himself in the fields during the day and the bar in the evening, leaving me with an absence of company that grew into a resentful distance. Appearances were kept, consisting of barely tolerated accompaniment in public. Privately, our relationship was punctuated with his barking commands and brooding silences, my tears and anxious groveling. As the depths of his cruelty reached me, I grew increasingly desperate, aching for touch or kindness, interaction of any kind. Over time, his silences evolved to vitriolic and cutting remarks, so that we were now reduced to this.

His muscles began to clench as his fist pumped faster, harder. "Vahnie, bring your face over my cock. Let me come on your face," he panted, and my insides softened with the sound of his endearment. Humiliated as I was, I knew this was as close to having sex as I was going to get. I moved over him, watching. His eyes squeezed shut and his face pulled into a grimace as his cum hit my cheek. "Jesus!" He never opened his eyes or saw the debasement he dealt, only continued stroking, his body jerking, my body on fire. The need in me did not slacken and found no release. I watched his face with hopeful eyes. His eyes finally opened as his hand stopped, and he frowned, eyeing me. "Clean yourself up. Bring me a warm towel."

And we were done.

I walked to the bathroom, trying desperately to hold back the tears I knew he hated. I rounded the corner and lit the candle, regarding my reflection as the white goo slid over my round cheeks to the folds of my neck. As I considered my ruined face, I couldn't pull a coherent thought together. I was pathetic, a joke, wanting and knowing that I was alone. This wasn't what I wanted, not what I needed. This wasn't right.

"It's not going to clean itself," he called from the bed. "Could you act a wee bit more lively?" I pumped the handle, splashing the water on my face with further no delay. The washcloth hung next to the bath, and I grabbed it, wiping my face dry. I dipped it under water and wrung it out, rolling the cloth between my hands to warm it with my body heat.

"Did you use that?"

"No, of course not," I lied. I prayed he wouldn't catch me.

"Well, come on," he growled impatiently. I walked to the bed, and bent down to wipe his cock and stomach. "Siobhan, put some clothes on. Try to be decent for a change."

I walked back to my side of the bed and pulled on my gown. It was a cold night and the wind howled. Rest would not come for hours yet, hours that would be spent aching with need. I struggled back into the bed, my backside to where he lay. "Goodnight, my love," I said softly, and was answered by the bleating rhythm of his snores.

* * *

The walk to town was always my private time to think and dream and imagine a better life. The canopy of the trees provided a shady, bowered pathway, one that was only occasionally dotted with rays of light. I swung my basket as I walked, singing to myself and enjoying the air.

I knew this path well. As a girl, I had skipped and sung my way through life, imagining princes and saviors in the woods, men who wanted me and only me, who were not only willing but eager to have me as their woman. Though those dreams were only a girl's folly, I thought about them often as I walked, longing for that salvation, amazed at how differently my life had turned out.

Today, I let my mind wander, imagining walking this path with a phantom lover by my side. The wild hyacinth were in beautiful bloom, ringing the forest floor off the path in a rich, blue, circled carpet. Tiny bursts of life skittered along the ground, quivering in the undergrowth and blending in the bracken.

My father had admonished me as a child not to pick the flowers, lecturing and scaring me with old tales of dark tragedies that befell the holders of the bloom. I had heard his tone but disregarded his words; the flowers were beautiful and temptation always won out over fear. Today, the dark canopy overhead seemed foreboding, though, and as I walked, I considered that perhaps I would have been wiser to take him at his word. Still, the scent and the color were enticing, overwhelming and seductive. I found myself wandering from the path, eager to lay beneath the blue carpet and lose myself in their beauty. I pulled a bloom to my face to inhale and savor its scent.

"It's unlucky to pluck a bluebell," a honey-laden voice crooned, deep as the forest gloom, "Especially those that circle you." I bolted upright, panic seizing me as I searched for the source of the sound. The woods were empty, quiet and motionless, daylight dripping through in soundless spots. I sat motionless save my shallow, startled breathing, my heart pounding out a wild tattoo.

"Who speaks?" I whispered, my voice all but stolen by my fright.

"One who would never harm you, lass," the voice replied, closer, yet still invisible. I moved to my knees, my head swiveling from side to side, pulling my arms in tight to my ribcage trying to tame my wild beating against my chest.

"Show yourself, if no harm is intended," I whispered. I waited for the response. Every nerve and sinew in my body was tense and panicked, and I could not breath, though my heart raced wildly.

"You best be to market, lass, before the best be gone," the voice trilled, laughing. The humor in the voice rang deep in my belly, electric and intriguing. I blinked, waiting, expecting some devil to spring out of the trees themselves. But as the moments ticked by, there was nothing, a soundless, reverberating nothing. The woods stood quiet, reaching toward the empty air. I took a long, slow breath in through my mouth, willing myself calm. I still knelt, attuned to attack, sensing more than hearing or seeing movement.

Slowly, my muscles began to uncoil, the hair on my nape relaxing and settling in the wake of fear that had gripped me. I stood, laying the bluebells across my basket. No motion or sound was evident, and I became sure of my solitude - I knew it as I knew my own name. Though my curiosity was completely engaged, the excited terror fled me, and I brushed my skirts, returning unhurriedly to the path to market. I did not scan the woods for saviors or villains, but hurried along, head down, until I broke into a run.

* * *

_**A/N: I hope you liked Chapter 1, and will let me know by leaving a review. I'm doing something a little different this time, posting all the chapters at once, but don't let that preclude your review. **_


	2. Chapter 2: Bluebells

_**Thank you, Mr. Bigg. You are a mighty rock, one that tethers me and sets me free simultaneously. **_

_**Please be aware that this story contains violence toward a woman. Like violence in real life, it's not right; it just is.**_

**Bluebells**

Rain and thunder took the daylight from me, but gave perfect cover for my husband's escape.

"I'm going into town," he bellowed, already half out the door. "Clean this pigsty up before I get home, which will be late. You'll have plenty of time to get your lazy arse in gear." The door slammed with such unwarranted force, I ran to the kitchen to protect the plates lining the walls, as one dropped to the sideboard with a clatter. I picked up the plate and sighed. I had no idea why he was angry, but then, this was not new. He was often angry; the fewer the reasons, the stronger the rage.

I made a quick assessment of my work, counting what could be achieved in such weather. Clearly, laundry was out; it would never dry. I peered out the kitchen window at the blackish grey clouds that continued to pour.

The woods seem to beckon me, standing green, dark, and wet. I let my gaze linger there, remembering the silken voice and the kind words spoken. My mind wandered through the bluebells, the memory of their rich, heady scent filling me with sensuous images of dappled sunlight, bracken beneath my back, and a deep, resonant chuckle that vibrated within me.

I woke from my reverie with a start, my hand smarting from the grip of the plate in my hold. Slowly, I unfurled my stiff fingers from my iron fist and placed it in the sink. I had no idea how long I'd stood here, building castles in the air over a moment that existed only in my mind. Looking to the skies, I wondered if something happened only to me, was it real? The clouds gave no answers. It was no longer raining, though the storm lingered higher, threatening to break through and crash at any moment.

I knew I should take advantage of the momentary reprieve from the rain to gather the supper greens. I grabbed my basket from the table and whirled to the door, flinging my arm wide and incautiously. The small tumbler holding the bluebell faltered and spilled, crushing the flowers and soaking the floor. Gloom seized me as I beheld the mess. I stared at the disorder I caused, and could not move to right it. I turned back to the door, heading for the garden.

Heather, dirt, and moisture hung in the air, giving the breeze a pleasant earthy aroma. Pulling the door shut behind me, I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Sanctity. Peace. I felt safe and comforted beneath the clouds, alone with the day before me.

I walked the stone path down the small slope from the house, to the tiny patch of land where my garden grew. The rabbits had been at the lettuce again; the red pepper flakes I had sprinkled about had been washed away in the rain. I knelt to pull what was left of the head into my basket.

"Forgive me," a disembodied, velvet voice sounded softly behind me. I fell to the ground, my hand at my throat, my face frozen in fear and surprise. "Oh! Forgive me, please!"

I twisted, looking up. The honey voice fell from a man, now the epitome of apology and chagrin. He leaned forward, his hand outstretched. I stared at him in shock; where had he come from?

"Please, let me help you up," he leaned closer, offering his hand as his voice offered reassurance. I shrank away, still frightened, suspicious of the man's kindness. He straightened, raising his chin in mild offense. "I would not hurt you, you have my word on that."

All manners left me as I sat, petrified, staring at the man. Though I was stunned by surprise, I was silenced by his beauty. His fair hair and skin glowed faintly, painting a halo about his crown. I hadn't ever imagined such kindness, nor dreamt of such beauty. It was confusing as my heart and head warred. What little of my wits remained commanded me to be afraid, but my heart spoke louder, winning the argument. _An angel._

"Can you stand?" he asked gently, and I felt myself melt into his words. My body relaxed, slumping to the ground as if to answer. His smile was gentle, his words now teasing. "Shall I carry you?" Once again, his gentle laugh vibrated within me, ringing the dead hope I carried to life.

"No, I'm…" I shook my head, turning my back to him and scrambling to my knees, to my feet awkwardly. "You just surprised me."

"Again, please forgive me," he replied, all lightness and teasing gone.

"No forgiveness is necessary," I said, stooping to retrieve my basket. His hand shot out in a blur, lifting the basket to my outstretched arm. I turned my bewildered gaze back to his now smiling face, as he offered the burden to me. I took the basket, slung it over my arm, and set about swiping at my skirts. "What manner of business brings you here?"

"No business at all," he grinned. "I brought a gift."

"A gift? For whom?" Confusion painted my expression.

"For you, dear lady," he cooed.

"Sir, I am a married woman," I said, summoning as much indignation as I could. Propriety dictated my scorn, but I found this difficult to summon standing in the presence of one so earnest and beautiful.

"Again, I beg your pardon, but this gift is small, one that you would have gotten yourself, weather permitting." His eyes lifted to the skies, as if his very gaze would conjure the rain.

I did not follow his gaze, I watched his face. He was utterly without guile or artifice, his expression open and straightforward. My curiosity piqued, a nervous excitement grew deep in my belly. The electric tension from the forest returned, and the words tumbled from my lips in a whisper without thought.

"What do you have for me?"

His eyes returned to mine, then dipped as he brought his hand from behind his back. He held seven blooms of wild hyacinth in his fist, which he extended to me. My eyes dropped to his hand. Each flower was perfect and unique, the shades of blue brilliant against the ever-darkening sky. Mesmerized by the beauty of the flowers and the simplicity of the offer, my hand moved forward gingerly to take the bouquet. "Thank you," I breathed, awestruck.

"It is my pleasure," he breathed. His scent lingered in the air, wafting to me. Suddenly, I felt lifted, dizzy, overwhelmed. I took the bright blooms, hypnotically watching him. My hand brushed his. I gasped; he was cold as ice. I opened my mouth to speak, and a rain drop fell, rolling down his cheek like a heavenly tear. "The rain is coming. You have time to return to the house, if you go now."

I looked past him to the house, considering. "But what about you –" I started, but the words fell on the empty air. He was gone.

* * *

He came in the front door, quiet animosity spinning around him like a foul wind. His afternoon absences to the bar had become more frequent and lengthy, slowly changing his homeward return to an atmosphere of drunken tension and recoil. I did not speak or greet him with my gaze; the table was set for supper and I went about serving.

The night closed in around us as we ate in silence. The chip and plink of our spoons as they dipped into the cockle soup were the only intruders in the quiet sullenness that sank about our supper. I let my gaze travel briefly to touch the bluebells standing at the table's end, then returned to my meal, as a small, wistful smile lifted the corners of my mouth. Even in my woodland fright, I had felt oddly lifted and happy as I'd run to market. Preparing the cockles and baking bread had been minor tasks, ones that left me free to dream about the strange encounter. I reached forward, breaking off a hunk of the soda bread.

"Haven't you had enough?" I jumped, startled by the acid voice judging me across the table.

"I ate no dinner, husband, and have not met the amount of food before you." I spoke softly, not lifting my eyes. I didn't wish to argue. I pulled a small morsel into my mouth with exaggerated daintiness, acting the part of graciousness he did not see in me.

The table jerked and jumped, thrown into the air, soup, bread and silverware spilling and splashing to the walls and floor. His right hand was around my throat in one fell swoop, the other knotting and twisting into my hair. "You fat cow! You call this swill food?" He yanked my head backward, pulling me off my chair and forcing my face towards his. The smell of whiskey and tobacco oozed from him, fanned by his sudden and explosive anger. "You really are worthless," he spat, pushing me away. The chair skittered out from beneath me, and I fell to the hard, earthen floor, sprawling out with my skirts around my waist. His violence was not unknown to me, but it had been a slow, building blaze – not a unexpected torrent of fury like tonight. He stood glowering over me, his face beet red with anger and drink. "Get up."

I pulled my skirts and struggled to my feet, moving as far away from him as I could without notice. My brow ached with tension, and I cringed as he moved toward me.

"Bend over," he growled, shoving me toward the overturned table. I stumbled, my knees skinning against the wood, scrambling to comply and abate his rage. He pulled up my skirts and ripped away my undergarments. "Don't say a word, you fucking pig, and I'd better hear no cries." He slapped my naked ass, presented to him as I bent. I swallowed a gulp and bit my lip, willing myself quiet, wishing the world away.

He pushed his crotch to my ass, lifting his penis between my cheeks. It flopped uselessly against my skin, and he grunted, pumping it against me, again and again. A groan of frustration roiled out of his chest, and his fingers dug into me.

"What man could expect to stay hard with this?" The smack against my skin stung and blistered, my scream nearly escaping. There would be no mercy, no gentleness afforded me tonight. I braced myself for pain.

The wind howled and screeched and growled, shaking the walls of the house and stilling his violence. He pulled away, blundering, drunken steps hailing his retreat. "Banshees…" he breathed, awe and fear mixing in his voice. His whisper grew urgent. "Siobhan, get up. Get dressed."

I stood, allowing my skirts to drop over my nakedness, wiping my tears before turning to face him. His expression was a mask of stark in terror, mouth hanging open as he struggled with his pants.

"'Tis the wind, husband," I said flatly, the howling softening to stillness as I brushed my skirts. I could not bear to raise my gaze to him, to see him for the murderous bastard he was. My skirts flattened, I stooped to retrieve the ruined meal from the floor.

"No, there is no wind tonight," he breathed, still in the grip of terror. "'Tis the banshee, come to take one of us to the grave." He stumbled backward, turning toward the fire and chair.

Anger flared within me as I sought to still my tongue, lest he explode again. His own fear would quiet him, save me from punishment, but my torment was nothing. I scraped the silver and crockery from the floor, idly noticing only one bowl had chipped, though still usable. I pushed to standing, turning to peer out the window above the sink. A flickering paleness shimmered away, retreating in the moonlight, and silence returned for a soft moment, until the snores of the drunk filled the house.

* * *

_**A/N: I hope you liked Chapter 2, and will let me know by leaving a review. I love hearing your reactions and thoughts; it keeps me going. I'm doing something a little different this time, posting all the chapters at once, but I hope you'll take a moment and review the story if you liked it. **_


	3. Chapter 3: Wishes

**_This is the final chapter of my little story. Thank you to my awesome beta, Mr. Bigg, and to my friends and fans who encouraged me to write the story. _**

_**The violence toward a woman in the story is not acceptable on any level. Unfortunately, so many of our sisters have suffered in a similar manner; we've lost too many to ignore. **_

**Wishes**

Standing outside the woods, I contemplated the path that led me here.

Behind me, the road I had chosen laid in ruins. My husband, a sadistic, selfish man, slept in front of the dying fire, his pillow of ashes cradling his head. When he woke, he would be surly and angry, anxious for food and someone to curse. My absence would fuel his discontent, and lead him to the pub, if I were lucky. He'd have no memory of the prior violence, nor the fear that kept him from it.

Before me laid the woods. The path was dappled with sunlight and shadow, bluebells and bracken lining the way. I looked into the depths of the forest and felt a thrill of fearful excitement rush through me. Would the silken voice beckon me today? Would the voice become embodied? Would I meet the savior I had dreamt of for so long? I wanted to run to the woods, dashing through the wild hyacinth, searching for the voice, for the kind words that waited there.

Yet, I couldn't move. The remembrance of the incautious dream that had pushed me down the aisle and into the arms of a man who held me without regard tethered me in place against the unreasonable hope that pulled me forward. I glanced behind me once more, considering, weighing, taking stock of where I was before I moved. The path behind me was fraught with pain, heartbreak, humiliation and loneliness. There was no joy, no hope, no love or possibility of love to draw me back. It was wreckage, time wasted nursing a dead root that would never bloom again.

I shifted my gaze back to the woods. What lay before me could hold the same pain and betrayal as the path behind. What kept me from entering the woods to find deception and abuse? I had pinned my longing on two sentences spoken in shadowed obscurity, knowing nothing more than the voice that may or may not wait for me. Perhaps he was a monster, summoned by my heedless plucking of the plant; perhaps he was fair folk, come to drag me below the ground to dance to death. Perhaps he was nothing at all. Perhaps I had conjured the voice, a needful dream made real only in my mind.

I looked to the left, considering the way around the woods so many had taken. A safe road, a worn road. No beauty or enchantment, simply a means to town, utilitarian and staid. It had never tempted me; no, it was not my way. I peered again into the woods.

In the dappled gloom stood a man, watching me. His pale skin stood stark against the shadows, though his eyes seemed to burn like fire. I turned full to him, intrigued, bewitched. He was motionless, still, though his mouth seemed to curve in a slow smile. My heart pounded with excitement and hope pushed my feet forward into the forest.

The stillness of the air around me drew me back to myself. There was no sound of life beneath the rot and leaves of the forest floor, the birds did not sing in the trees. The air was still pleasant and cool, but all life seemed somehow vacant. Before me, the man stood, unwavering and still. Breath rushed through my lungs, leaving me panting.

The ceiling of branches and leaves left me in shade, except for the few pools of sunlight that made its way through the overhang. Where the sunlight touched the hyacinth, they burned like an icy blue flame, lighting the path as I walked toward him. My pace slowed as his face came more sharply in view. He wasn't smiling, he was grimacing, frowning in pain as if the effort to stand unmoving tormented him. Instinctually, I wanted to reach out and touch him, comfort him. But I had no idea who he was, or why he was here in my woods.

"Are you hurt, lass?" His voice was hoarse, strained, but still infused with the honey glow I remembered. His words made no sense; was I not walking straight and true?

"I am well, sir, but I am no lass," I said in a breathless whisper. "My husband is yonder up the path –" Turning my body, I motioned up the path without taking my eyes from his.

"That man is no husband," the stranger growled, and I took a step back in fright.

"Do you know my man?"

"Aye, I know him," he spat, the words like fire on his tongue. "And 'man' is not an apt description of him." He broke my gaze, and looked at his feet. "Begging your pardon, lass, er, I mean, missus."

"There is no foul," I replied, baffled my his odd behavior and my own curiosity. "Are you away to greet him?"

"No," he said, once again looking up into my eyes. Though the answer should have put me off, made me run to market or back to the house, it had the opposite effect. I stayed planted where I stood, unable to look away or move. "I came to see you, to ensure you were well and unharmed."

"Again, sir, I am well," I replied, confused. The honesty of his query was plain in his eyes. His expression beseeched more response from me, but I could not fathom what he needed. "I'm unsure of your meaning."

"Once again, I must beg your pardon," he said softly, "A constant from me, I fear." He added this as an aside to himself, breaking our gaze and looking down. "I've overstepped my bounds, I know. But truly, I was afraid for you last night."

"Last night?" I had not seen him last night. I had seen no one, save my drunken husband… Slowly, realization blossomed in my thoughts. Not seen. _Heard._ "Was that you?"

"I meant only to frighten him, missus, to stop his… attack on you," he said, his gaze leveled directly into mine. "I have no right to come between man and woman, I know, but I would not stand by to witness his violence. Forgive me, please."

As he spoke, my heart began to race. Had he heard the explosive rage that had erupted from my husband? Had this beautiful stranger watched me as my husband debased me? My cheeks burned with embarrassment and shame, and I turned away from him, my hand flying over my mouth.

"No, no! I've embarrassed you, no," he crooned as his hand reached my shoulder. The icy touch sent a shiver of fire down my spine, jolting through me with fiery excitement. I gasped. He misinterpreted my intentions, and dropped his hand. "Please, dear lady, please don't go."

I turned around to look at him. His eyes were downcast though open, and he held his hands clenched beneath his nose as if praying. His body was tense; he struggled with an inner battle.

I should have been affronted by his words, outraged by his touch. But I had lived my life by should haves, staying where I was not wanted, hoping where I was not loved. His look of hopelessness and fear struck pity in my heart, and breathed life into the love that had been long dead within me. How could one so beautiful, so kind be allowed to worry over someone such as me? "I don't know your name."

His hands dropped minutely, freeing his mouth to move. "My name is Liam." He still clutched his hands before him, as if the silent prayer he made would be broken by movement or words. He spoke to my heart with his stillness, and in that moment, I wanted nothing more in this world or the next than to put his heart at ease.

"Liam," I said, moving a step closer. "I am well. Your kindness is… welcomed." His eyes shot to mine, and the tension left him. He smiled, and blossoms of joy opened throughout my body. Color became richer, the air more sweet. I smiled in return. "I'm the one who should beg your pardon, for causing such anxiety in you."

He smiled more broadly, the full height of his beauty taking hold. Immediately, I was dizzy and faint, swimming in the light and airy release of joy. He reached forward to right my balance. "Steady, there, lass."

He lowered me to the ground, softly bending near me. The smell of his hair and breath were unparalleled; so much like a man and yet sweet and musky. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. A soft stroke of air filled with his scent brushed over me and I opened my eyes. He was no longer over me as I'd hoped, in fact, I could not see him at all. "Liam?" I asked, rising. My heart sank; he was gone. Despair suffocated the breathy wells of joy that had filled me only moments earlier. "Liam?" I called again, more softly this time, sure of his absence. I knew in an instant that I was a silly, ridiculous woman who lived in fantasy, dangerously close to the edge of madness. I had wanted him so badly, wanted his kindnesses to be genuine, wanted his touch, his embrace, his kiss… My head drooped, my hands raised to my face and I began to sob. I fell back among the bluebells, the color an empty reminder of my sorrow.

"Don't cry," he said, smoothing my hair away from my face. "Please don't cry. It pains me to see you sad."

"You're not real," I sobbed, refusing to sit up. I knew I imagined it all, dreamt him up out of loneliness and need. "If I sit up, a- a- and look for you, you won't…" Anguish took my voice, and the tears continued to flow.

"Sweet lady," he cooed. "By all things holy, I swear to you I am as real as you. But I'm weak, and you, you are beautiful." I pulled upright, and looked to his face. He seemed real; his eyes watched me with a look I could never imagine. I raised my hand to touch his face. He held utterly still, waiting for the contact of my skin against his. As my fingertips lightly brushed his cheek, he closed his eyes and brought his hand over mine. The cool burn of his skin disarmed me. I leaned into his touch, wanting, hoping for more, when his eyes slowly opened.

"I find myself wanting what I should not," he whispered, "things that may never be. Your touch," his hand pulled mine from his cheek, but did not release it, "Your embrace, your love. All these things I desire, were you free to give." His unoccupied hand rose to wipe my tears, gently stroking my face. "Were I free to give you mine in return."

"Are you, too, bespoken?" I could barely utter the words. The soft caress of his hand had already stolen my heart. I feared his answer, afraid my heart would break.

"No, lass, no. No one claims my heart, save the woman before me now." My heart leapt and thudded heavily in my chest, a smile broke across my face. "But I am not truly a man, not truly worthy of such a prize as you."

I had no words, no voice, no way to thank or refute him. I sat in the flowers staring into his night colored eyes. I searched his face, trying to memorize each line, each facet, every expression. If this were my own delusion, I wanted to have these details to conjure this man again. If he were indeed real, I never wanted to close my eyes.

His mouth was generous as he smiled back at me. His teeth were white and perfect. The dark circles beneath his eyes seemed to fade as he smiled, though his cheeks did not warm his pale skin. He seemed altogether pleased and comfortable with my examination of his face, leveling his gaze directly to my eyes. "Liam," I sighed, painting my memory with his name.

"You have me at a disadvantage, dear one," he said, softly, still holding my hand. I tilted my head to the side in question. "You know my name, but yours remains a mystery."

"Siobhan," I breathed, unable to raise my voice to audible

"Ah, God's grace. Of course," he cooed. "How could it be anything else." It was not a question, but more of a statement, something he thought he should have known. "Siobhan."

"Yes?" I felt mildly drugged, as if the aroma of his closeness had intoxicated me. He chuckled gently, and the wild little bird of joy fluttered inside me again.

"I think it's time for you to go home," he said softly and stood, still holding my hand. His free hand reached out for me, and there was no response needed other than to slip my hand in his. He tugged just once, and I was on my feet. "I am always here for you, as long as you will see me. I promise, I won't hurt you."

"Yes," I said numbly, unable to look away or blink. He raised my hands to his lips, and kissed the back of each. "Until next time, God's grace." A soft breeze stirred, and he was gone.

I wandered back to the house, and absentmindedly set the basket on the table as I bent to sit. _Liam_, I thought turning the name over and over in my mind. I rested my head on the heel of my hand, and let myself dream of Liam. Each detail of his face returned to me now, his kind and generous mouth, the dark of his eyes, the pale fire of hair that crowned him. _Liam._

My head swam with the beauty of the memory, all made sweeter by the remembrance of his words. _I find myself wanting your touch, your embrace, your love. _He wanted me. Oh, how long had I dreamt of this? He would never know how much I wanted, I needed someone to want me, all of me. The countless nights I'd lain awake, empty and dying inside with need gnawing at my body, all the pain and sorrow of rejection and disdain; his simple words held so much promise.

I imagined myself kissing his beautiful mouth, letting my tongue taste his smooth skin. My body flushed with the images that danced in my head: his body naked, above mine, begging for my touch. I felt the warm tears run down my face and over my hand. The dream was so real and yet so far from today… I put my head down on the table and allowed my dream to drift.

* * *

I was wretched awake by a snarl and fierce yanking of my hair. "What are you good for, huh? Nothing! Sleeping the day away!" His hands twisted around my hair, jerking and tearing it from my head. "I'll show you."

He threw my head forward, releasing my hair. My head thumped against the table top, forcing stars before my eyes. "Get up," he growled. I couldn't think; my head hurt from the roots of my hair to the knot on my brow. I tried to move my splayed fingers to soothe the aching spots. "I said, GET UP!"

My bodice tore as he pulled me up by the shoulders. The table flipped away from me, flinging the spices, plates and flowers to the floor with a crash. In this desperate moment when my life was truly at risk, my mind seemed to catch a thought it could not release: my bluebells. The seven stems of blooms laid broken and battered on the floor, bits of glass poking through the wet stalks. His hands wrenched me forward and back, skin twisting against skin, chafing and bruising my neck. He tossed me from side to side like a rag doll. My eyes were filled with the dying flowers, my thoughts consumed with the needless violence that had ruined them forever.

In that moment, in that grief, I became unhinged. I kicked backward, connecting with his shin. He stumbled away, falling against the sink, momentary surprise replaced by instant, unrestrained fury. In desperation, I ran to the door, flinging it wide. I meant to scream; I intended to scream. But the sheer effort of my futile attempts to escape swallowed my voice, and only a slight whimper escaped. "Liam!" My voice would never travel, he would never hear me. I was doomed, doomed to die at the hands of this maniacal madman, never to see the kind angel with the generous mouth again. "Lia–"

He grabbed the back of my dress and jerked me off my feet. "Whore! Where is your lover now? Whore! Who is he?" I fell into a crumpled pile before the fireplace, dirt and ash rising in a cloud around me. My head rang against the hearth stone, and the warm trickle of blood ran down my neck. My shaking hand rose to touch the oozing wet spot at my nape, but never quite connected. The slap across my face resonated in the hateful house and I stilled, stunned, unable to breathe, move, run. Tears spilled silently down my face.

"You will regret this, Siobhan." He straightened to his full heighth, looking around the room. "By God, you will regret this. But not for long. No not for long at all." His low monologue was delivered through clenched teeth and bitter intent. He paced back to the kitchen, and threw open the drawer. The silver clattered to the floor as the wood splintered against the far wall. He stooped, picking up a butcher knife from the heap. His eyes shone with drink and rage. "Now you'll find out what it's like to be sorry," he hissed, punctuating each phrase with a step toward me, "Won't you… you fat… ugly… cow."

In that moment, I knew my life would end. My head was bleeding profusely, and though I tried to rise, there was no strength in my legs or arms to set me standing. My stomach heaved with fright, and my hands shook with terror. He kept coming closer, slowly, taking pleasure in the fear as he came to kill me.

"No one will find you… No one would look. I'm all there is… and I… want… you…" he paused a moment, then dove at me, the knife raised high to plunge. "Dead!"

My hand flew to the poker at my right, pulling it defensively before me. As he pitched forward to stab at me, the poker connected with his chest, his own weight punching the iron into his heart. A strangulated growl escaped his throat as his downward fall continued to propel him into the spear, skewering him before me. I closed my eyes as the knife descended into my chest, gashing and ripping my flesh.

In the angry moments that tore my life from me, a loud bang joined the cacophony. I opened my eyes, looking past the hilt of the knife protruding from my chest, past the squirming, grunting body atop me to see my angel, my Liam, framed in the open doorway. He was like a god, pale and fierce against the blue night behind him, and though my life was in ruins, I felt strangely at peace. I smiled, my man gurgled, and Liam's face broke into a masque of horror.

"Siobhan!" It was a prayer, so soft and far away. He looked so sad. I didn't want him to be sad.

He was at my side, tearing the dying man away from me. "You're here," I whispered, satisfied and content, even in the face of my own death.

Liam's face was intense. The bruises beneath his eyes were black, exceeded only by the absence of light and color in his eyes. "Siobhan, stay still. Close your eyes."

"Yes, my love." It would be easy, closing my eyes. I was so tired.

The room shuttered with activity. I couldn't see. My eyelids were so heavy. Something growled. A wet sucking sounded in the air. My eyes fluttered open. Liam was bent over my man. I was tired. I was so cold.

The sound of a sack of potatoes thrown to the ground woke me. I strained to open my eyes. Liam was bending over me. His hand was on the knife. His eyes weren't dark. They were red. "You're here," I breathed. I couldn't think. He was here. That was good. I was so cold. I was dying.

"Siobhan," he said, bending close to my ear. "This is the last time I will beg your forgiveness. Join me now, my love. The pain is but a moment's sadness. Forgive me." With a gushing tear, he pulled the knife from my chest. I gasped deep in pain. "Forgive me," he whispered again, then leaned to the open, bleeding wound. For a moment, I felt razors burrowing into my chest, warming me. The warmth grew, and I became aware of the discomfort, no, the pain, the searing burning in my chest, the agony of being burned alive, scorched from the inside out.

My life of torment was ending, burning away to ash. I wished it away, pushed it away, glad to see it go. I burned on, hope slowly replacing the pain, love replacing the sorrow. When at last my new eyes opened, my pale angel awaited and sighed, "By God's grace, I am here for you always, as long as you will have me."

"By God's grace, I wish this day would never end," I replied. And by God's grace, I got my wish forever.

* * *

_**A/N: I hope you liked my little story, and that you'll leave me a note to say what you liked. Thank you for reading!**_


End file.
